Electric candles in golden chandeliers
coat the ceiling in yellow greetings while evergreens
dance down the edges of the stained glass windows to settle around
soft, looped red bows. Cozy in the crowded pews,
the congregation is audience to song and sermon.

Lights above and around them dim
for the last hymn. Sanctuary is invaded by darkness.

The people pass one light to each other,
wick to wick, candle to candle, flame to flame.
Arms lift the light high as one, a hundred different
sleeves, skins, and strengths caught in the rise
of the candlelight. In rumbling chorus
they call on the peace of silent night’s song and shake the shadows.
Among them wakens the Christmas promise of change.

“Again he said, ‘What shall we say the kingdom of God is like […]? It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest seed you plant in the ground. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds of the air can perch in its shade.” – Mark 4:31-32

“Beneath the flames”

Despair is the flames parading over our
streets with crackling fanfare
and only silence to answer it

An old woman is watching this with
red, weary eyes. She holds a golden locket
with a seed.

Confusion is the hammer madly pounding.
Denial is the darkness past the flame,
where it is getting hard to see.

An old woman on the sidewalk takes the seed
from the locket and gives the locket to a boy
at her knee. It fills his hands with gold.

Terror is the dryness in the air
and the wind that carries the spectacle
Pain is the thousand, thousand hands ready
with water but no leader for the brigade.

An old woman kneels in an overgrown lot
and plants the seed into the earth. It is small
like the boy with the locket.

Love is the seeds deeper than fire
and smaller than notice.
Hope is planting mustard beside a boy
with a golden reminder.

The endless reach of God’s love for us and the universe he made always leave me humbled.

“Boundless”

Love has seized my soul with its boundless
tapestries. Every moment it gives to me
transforms me from gray to yellow like
sunrise over autumn’s golden change. As I sit
with Love more often, I see more of its stretching arms.
It is passion with no limit and the energy in creation,
the delicacy of detail and the smooth lines of the universe.
It is hands that lift up, draw close, and unite
all of us various pieces of dust into a single world.
When we look around for that endless warmth,
it finds us and whispers, “I’m not what you thought.”

Written for the many people affected by disease and struggle, whether past or present. We are told “Be still and know I am God” (Psalm 46:10), but what does that look like?

“Question mark”
I see you staring at me, question mark,
like a scar on paper.
You aren’t the elegant, looped symbol
I grew up practicing to read and write.
On the page you are written in six letters: c a n c e r.
I cannot forget you,
escape you,
or answer you
with a thousand distractions,
a million miles,
or a billion books.
I pray to understand, to fight the question, to erase the mark.
But God has not answered or erased anything.
Instead God listens. He sits with me in waiting rooms,
holds the shaking reports in my hands,
and stays awake with me while I am staring at nothing.
God just
is
when I am afraid
to be.
When the lights are out,
the treatments fail,
and the goodbyes sneak up on me,
all I have from God is: be still. Know I am God.
It is, in the end, my only answer
to the question mark.

To my country America, consider whose “Word” we are listening to right now. Consider what it sounds like—and what it ought to sound like instead.

“Whose will be done?”
You have heard it said I am a God of love and mercy,
but I say to you, rip the babies from their mothers
and bring them to me for proper salvation.
Truly I say to you, follow the law blindly and take no responsibility.
Blessed are the ones who live with closed hearts, and
Blessed are they who misuse my name for fear and power,
for theirs will be a snow-white country.
Love the Lord your God when it is convenient,
and do unto others as you see fit.
And your mortal kingdom come, your will be done,
in America as it is in darkness.
Amen.

Grief is a long process and one that I wholeheartedly believe can only be endured with the love of the people around us. In their embraces, encouragement, quiet company, God is present and working to heal us. And when we are ready, God can also show us how to see a way forward.

God bless.

“The Last Photo”

The moment snaps
like an old Kodak camera – click –
captured in the glare of a flash
on darkness. Your weakening breath and slack fingers
are imprinted in the silent cacophony of the end
I didn’t want.

I am holding old pictures in
a quiet house as disarray hangs
upon me, stealing direction.
Atop each photo of birthdays,
beach trips, and family vacations,
the last image of all perches
with black raven claws.

I am moving through albums,
and it takes me years to turn
pages. It takes the constant embrace
of love and perseverance to push
off the raven claws and teach
me how to hold my hands to
capture new moments.

This one goes out to all the caregivers and the heartbroken trying so hard to be strong for everyone else.

God bless

“In Winter”

You have been looking for beauty in the winter
and a masterpiece in the shrieking storm.
You are rain-whipped and weary,
but for them, you must be strong.
For them you tell of rainbows and silver.
For them you are the warm hearth in the blizzard.
You keep your eyes open
to never miss a second or a cry.
Passersby say words to you like snowfall that blow cold
and then fall into the blanket of white ashes
where you put up a sign called Reality.
You hide the sign behind your skirts. They must not see.

In this season where you are the single pillar, I can only say:
Pray remember who is your ground.